The screen sleeps in my palm,
a small, indifferent moon.
Three dots bloom, then vanish—
a tide that forgets to come in.
I scroll through the last thing you said,
as if re-reading could change the ending.
Outside, the day goes on performing itself:
traffic, a pigeon, a leaf giving up.
Inside, time slows to a buffering wheel,
spinning on the edge of almost.
There’s a grammar to this quiet—
ellipsis, unsent draft,
the faint electric ache of maybe.
When your reply finally lands,
it says nothing extraordinary—
just hey, sorry—
but the world exhales,
and the moon in my hand
brightens again,
like it never learned to wait.
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